


problem solved

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e08 The Well, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:18:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward said to fix it, so Jemma did. It's not her fault he didn't like her methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	problem solved

**Author's Note:**

> Over on tumblr, ississi prompted “If you want, we could go together?”

There’s not much to keep Jemma busy aside from monitoring her patient’s vitals and keeping track of how he’s responding to the sedative. Of course there would be _more_ to do if Coulson hadn’t ordered May to move her patient to the lounge and ordered Jemma to remain by his bedside (couchside, technically) until he wakes.

That was three hours ago.

She wasn’t even allowed to _speak_ to Professor Randolph afterward - though Skye and Fitz were kind enough to pepper him with questions in the kitchen so that she could easily overhear. And of course she wasn’t allowed to accompany the others on the mission to stop the terrorist group either.

It’s utterly unfair. Just because she sedated Ward against his will.

Firstly, she is _not_ a medical doctor, there is no silly oath preventing her from acting on whatever care she deems necessary in spite of her patients’ protests.

Secondly, Ward told her to _fix it_. What was she meant to do? Ignore his request?

Thirdly, he had been at that punching bag for over an _hour_. If someone didn’t do something, he might have permanently injured himself if he kept pushing like that. She did what needed to be done and she will _not_ apologize for it.

Yes, that does sound like it will work on Coulson. Perhaps go a little easier on the first point though, he might see it as something of a threat given that she’s also his doctor.

She taps at her tablet, making the necessary adjustments to the speech. It’s really all she can do until Ward makes some obvious change. The readouts from the monitors she reattached to him are displayed in the upper right of her screen and all have been steady for the better part of her imprisonment by his side; he’s merely sleeping now.

She’s debating adding a bit more emphasis to Ward’s demand that she find some way to cure him (which she did, obviously) when suddenly the readouts spike and the body which has been prone for so long is a blur of movement.

Boredom and isolation (the others left for the abbey _ages_ ago) has long since driven Jemma to the floor beside Ward’s couch, as it puts her in a better position to offer aid should he suddenly need it. It also, as it happens, puts her in a better position to be grabbed by the throat and pushed back into the hard edge of the coffee table. She forces herself to remain as calm as possible; fighting back will only cause him to act more on instinct and likely injure her. His wild expression shifts to fear as her heartbeat pounds against his palm.

“Simmons,” he breathes, his touch gentling. He looks around, lost, and for the first time since he dropped to the cargo bay floor, she feels a twinge of guilt. His hand loosens and slips down to rest against her collarbone while he tries to get his bearings. “What-” His eyes flash again as they swing back to her. “You _shot_ me.”

Oh, she was hoping he wouldn’t remember that. It took two shots from the night-night gun to knock him out and she did wonder if he’d have any memory of turning to face her between the two. She’ll have to make note of that.

Later, of course. At the moment his hand has grown heavier against her collarbone and he is plainly waiting for her to defend herself. “Well,” she says, and though her voice comes out level, she imagines her rapid heartbeat and shaky breathing are more than apparent to him, “firstly I am not- um …”

It’s not his anger that gives her pause, it’s the hurt. Someone who doesn’t know him might not be able to see it, shadowed by the rage as it is, but Jemma knows how he tries to hide his true feelings beneath ones he deems suitable for the rest of them to see in him.

“You were out of control,” she says gently, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his arm. “And I don’t mean that I feared for our well-being - you would _never_ hurt us - but you were going to hurt yourself. I did what needed to be done.” She lifts her chin. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy with my methods - and sorry it came to that, honestly - but I’m not sorry I did it.”

He laughs harshly and the sound travels down his arm to where his fingers are curling, likely without his notice, in the collar of her shirt. “Of course you’re not. Not sorry you jumped out of the damn plane, not sorry you shot a fellow agent - _two_ now. Getting a taste for it, Simmons?”

If she were wearing monitors of her own, the display on the fallen tablet beside them would spike now. “I did what was necessary - and I will remind you that the first two incidents you mentioned saved your _life_. So you might try being a little grateful.”

“Yeah?” He leans forward and now he is most definitely holding onto her shirt, his fist twisted so tight in it she couldn’t get away if she tried. “And how many times have I saved your life, huh? How about you try _trusting me_ to know my own damn limits?”

“I do!” she snaps. “Under normal conditions, but these are not those. Why can’t you trust _us_ to help you? We’re your _friends_ , Ward.”

Some of the tension leaves him and she feels suddenly less like he’s looming. She’s also, now that she has a moment to breathe, acutely aware of how violently her heart is pounding and where. If she _were_ wearing those monitors, the readouts would be very embarrassing indeed.

“Where are the others?” he asks, looking around the empty lounge as though realizing May should have shown up by now to pull him off her.

“Out hunting down the last piece of the staff - with Randolph.” She doesn’t add that they’ve discovered he’s an Asgardian, as that would likely only drive Ward back over the edge.

The mention of him though, is plenty to sour Ward’s mood. “Great.”

He’s still breathing heavily and, when she looks to the tablet, his adrenaline is far too high. Perhaps she should have left him conscious, the mission might have been just what he needed. “We need to find a way to burn off your adrenaline before it causes permanent damage,” she says.

“Other than a punching bag?” he asks with that wry sense of humor he’s been showing more of lately. It seems the staff is bringing it to the surface in full force.

“Yes,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “preferably something that won’t do you-” his hand slides up into her hair and she thinks he must be closer now than he was when she last looked away- “harm.”

“I can think of a way,” he says roughly and closes the last of the space between them.

 

 

\-------------

 

 

“We’re ho-ome!” Skye’s hollering wakes Grant - and Simmons too. She moans and curls into him, pressing a sleepy kiss to his chest.

“Too earl-” She stiffens and sits upright so fast she’d crack her head open on the shelf over his bed if he didn’t catch her.

He meets her horror-wide eyes. “Yeah.”

Her lower lip catches in her teeth. Outside, Fitz and Skye are arguing about her yelling. Simmons’ mouth opens and he covers it with his hand before she can say anything; May’s walking by on her way to the cockpit and if Simmons so much as _whispers_ , she’s gonna hear.

He gives it a few extra seconds, using them to get a handle on himself. He can still feel the itch of the rage under his skin, but it’s manageable. With a little extra work, he’s able to stuff his worst memories back in their box and focus on the matter at hand. Which is a very naked Simmons straddling his equally naked lap.

He drops his hand and has to curl it away to keep from brushing her breast.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi,” he says. His hands move to her thighs and he massages them gently. He likes the weight of her in his lap almost as much as he likes the marks he left on her.

A wave of cold cools his desire. He fucked Simmons. He was mean and he fucked her and now she’s covered in angry marks.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

His fingers ghost over the bruises peppering her hips. Grant Ward, agent of SHIELD, would never have done this. She shudders and he thinks of that time he had to drag John out of a brothel in Singapore to keep himself in check. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have-”

Her fingers land on his lips. “I knew what we were doing.” Her hand fists awkwardly as she looks away. “It was a medical procedure. It wasn’t- it wasn’t anything-”

Shit. This is why this is a problem. Simmons has been crushing on him ever since he saved her life and that was _fine_ \- that was _good_ , it kept her where he wanted her - and now he’s fucked it all up. Literally.

He wraps his hand around the back of her neck to play with her hair. “It was. Thank you.” He hisses out a breath. “I’m sorry it was- I’m sorry I was so...” He thumbs one of the bruises.

She blushes and it reaches down very, very low. He thinks of the brothel again. “I didn’t mind,” she says and shakes herself before climbing off him.

He lets her go, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. This is salvageable but … shit.

She’s getting dressed. Good. _Really_ good. It’s easier to think when there’s less bare skin in the room. He sits up to follow her example, but stays on the bed since there’s not enough space in here for them both to stand at once without winding up in another compromising situation.

He starts tearing at his sheets, looking for the shirt that’s gotta be _somewhere_ (he didn’t walk around without one all day), while outside Skye and Fitz have moved on to arguing about whether or not the two of them are missing because Grant murdered Simmons and is out burying the body.

“It’s all right,” she says, “I’ll tell them you woke up and I got you to bed and was checking up on you.”

He stops his hunting to stare. Even assuming she was capable of selling that lie - which she isn’t - her hair won’t be able to. He rubs his hands down the front of his jeans as he stands.

“If you want,” he says with all the awkwardness he’s been forgetting to show the past few hours, “I could go with you?”

She smiles almost pityingly at him and he’s struck by a sudden horrible thought. Maybe she didn’t like it. Maybe this is Simmons giving him the kiss off now that she’s gotten the chance to see her crush to fruition and it was unsatisfying.

He doesn’t know why that makes his gut twist.

But no. _No_. She liked it. He has _very_ vivid memories of her screams and the way her voice gets all hoarse when she begs to _prove_ she liked it.

“You don’t have to,” she says. “You don’t-” She shakes her head. “It’s all right.”

He tugs at a wayward lock of her hair and she hastily presses it down while hunting for her lost hair tie. “It’s in the lounge,” he says, remembering the moment he pulled it out so he could run his fingers through her hair - and also the way her nails scraped at his skin when she pushed his shirt off over his head. He grabs a new one from a drawer.

She huffs and twists at the loose strands to get them in line. “I know what you’re trying to do and while I appreciate it, it isn’t necessary-”

“No,” he agrees, stepping into her space, “but what if I want to?” It is, actually, very necessary. The only way to recover from this is to see it through. Yeah, it’ll ruin all his work on May, but it’s not gonna scrap it. Simmons is her favorite just like Skye is Coulson’s; a little extra devotion to her will go a long way to making May trust him.

Simmons’ mouth drops open a little and he indulges himself by tipping it closed. She wants him. All she needs is a little push and he’s got her.

She steps back as far as she’s able, her hands coming to rest on his chest. “You’ve had a terrible trauma - several, if Randolph is to be believed - and you’re not yourself. If you really want- want _this_ , then you’ll tell me later, but not now.”

He gapes. He can honestly say that’s not the reaction he expected.

“How’s my hair?” she asks.

“Simmons-”

“ _How’s my hair?_ ” She’s really serious about this.

“Fine,” he says and then catches her arm before she makes the door. “If they ask about my shirt, say I tore it off when I was getting the monitors off.” Since those are scattered in the lounge too, it’s a solid excuse.

She nods curtly and leaves, closing the door carefully behind her. He sits on the edge of his bunk, listening to her tell her lies. Fitz and Skye don’t exactly believe her, but they’re not questioning her excuse that she was calming him back down. With any luck they’ll assume he scared her.

Which is its own sort of problem but not one he’s willing to worry about on top of the current one. He wishes it was just that he’s gotta rethink how he plays Simmons now, but it’s more than that. It’s that she _shot_ him and fought him on it and he  _liked_ it. It’s that when he lays down on his bed, the sheets smell like him and her and sex and he can’t even fucking  _think_ through the memories. It’s that he has no idea how the hell to play a woman who puts him above her own want and he’s not sure he wants to.

 


End file.
